


words that cloy

by totallynotaghost



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Asexual Character, First Kiss, Georgie is a supportive friend, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping aftermath and recovery, M/M, Neurodivergent Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Set Before MAG118, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 3, canon-typical trauma, detailed content warnings in author's notes, jon in a skirt is my true agenda, porridge as a coping mechanism, rated "T" for a single swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25293142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallynotaghost/pseuds/totallynotaghost
Summary: “Mine’s not as sweet as yours, but it’ll do the job, eh?”Jon makes porridge. The Unknowing looms.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 51
Kudos: 260





	words that cloy

**Author's Note:**

> **CW//** canon-typical knowing/watching, eyes, feeling watched; food (preparation and consumption); canon-typical disordered eating (related to statements) and unintended weight loss due to eating difficulties (mentioned); medication/drug use (as prescribed); trauma discussion (kidnappings); scars; canon-typical violence (mentioned only)

Jon lifts a paper bag onto the small break room counter, methodically beginning to unpack the items. He really ought to have just run home, he muses. Bit too late for that, now.

The majority of the Archives staff would be leaving early this morning for Great Yarmouth. The others, Tim in particular, would probably not appreciate seeing Jon around any sooner than absolutely necessary, however.

Things fell apart unfathomably quickly with Melanie (and even Basira) after Elias...after. There is a line now, that dictates when and how much of Jon’s presence is tolerated. Jon has yet to figure out what that line is, or how to temper his _existence_ to their nebulous expectations.

Jon aligns the groceries in a tidy row, folding the empty bag and setting it aside. He sighs, hands fidgeting with the need to touch and do something, but not quite wanting to actually start prepping the food.

He is not even that hungry. Not in the physical, gnawing sense. This...ritual, for lack of a better term, is more about comfort than anything else. Georgie would approve, would call it “self care” and croon Jon’s progress to the Admiral.

He smooths his hands down the folds of his wrap skirt, a soft charity shop piece that Georgie bought for him years ago. Thin red lines trace the black and beige angular patterns that decorate the worn fabric.

He has always been a bit slim, but between the _kidnappings_ and his newfound dependency on statements, Jon has been struggling more and more with food when he manages to think of it at all. Luckily, the wrap skirt adjusts easily to his narrowing waist, and he slips his phone from the inner pocket (Georgie had fussed when she realised it did not have any pockets, so Jon had sewn a hidden one into one of the outer layers of fabric) and swipes open the chat app.

**Received at 05:02**  
take your meds! d(=^・^=)

He glances at his bag, resting on the tile and tucked under the small table. Jon blinks back down at the dimming screen and taps out a quick message. He places the phone face down on the counter next to a damp bag of frozen blueberries, and it nearly vibrates off the edge immediately.

**Sent at 05:09**  
Why are you awake Georgie?

 **Received at 05:09**  
why havent you taken your meds, professor x

Jon tucks the phone safely behind the dish drying rack without replying and grabs a microwave safe bowl from the cupboard. Breakfast first, then. He pulls the seal off the small container of rolled oats and pours out a decent portion. The break room contains a dry goods shelf for shareable snacks, so Jon reseals the lid and tucks it next to a box of granola.

His grandmother often prepared porridge for the two of them when Jon was growing up. She boiled it in a big pot on the hob, carefully measuring out spices and milk and diced fruits and chopped nuts. If she decided he had been well-behaved, she sometimes sprinkled soft brown sugar into Jon’s serving.

He preferred the instant sachets as he got older. He always had had a bit of a sweet tooth, and the consistent texture and reliable flavour of the individual portions were convenient.

Blinking slowly at the pale yellow bowl of thick, dry oats, Jon sighs. He peels the wrapping off the generic Tesco ground cinnamon and taps a bit into the bowl.

A sharp clatter in the direction the break room doorway startles Jon as he is uncapping the litre of semi-skim. He spills a bit of the milk as he twists around, spine pressed back against the edge of the counter and heart pounding up his throat.

(Caged animal. Trapped. Hunted groveling skinning _prey_ \- )

Martin scoops up the mug he dropped on the floor, straightening with a sheepish smile. “Sorry! Wasn’t, uh, expecting anyone to be here so early. Or, at all today, really. Sorry.”

“Ah,” Jon swallows, loosening his clawed grip on the milk carton. “It’s fine, I-I was just…” He gestures a bit helplessly at the groceries. “Breakfast, I suppose.”

“Oh! How about tea, then?”

“Yes, please.” The automatic response tumbles out. Jon shifts his weight to his good leg and waves again at the ingredients lining the counter. “Do you...you can use whatever you like, if you’re hungry.”

“Okay.” Martin flicks on the kettle, pulling down an extra mug. “Need a hand?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” Jon says quickly.

Martin nods easily. “Peppermint okay?” He places an unopened box of herbal mint next to the kettle and moves toward the fridge. “We’re out of Yorkshire Gold...” The thin light washes out his complexion, expression comically severe as he scrutinises the contents of the fridge.

Jon tugs his gaze away and sets down the carton of semi-skim when his burned hand begins to shake. “Peppermint is fine.” He caps the milk loosely, hand still trembling too much for fine motor movements. Jon pushes the milk closer to the mugs when Martin abandons the fridge. “The shop on Fulham is open twenty-four hours, if anyone tries to fuss at you over the tea selection.”

It is a weak attempt at humour. Martin laughs anyway, and a tiny warm thing blooms behind Jon’s ribcage. Jon pulls open the microwave, setting the soggy oats on the revolving plate and punching the quick timer setting.

The bracing scent of mint fills the small space in the kitchenette as Martin pours near-boiling water into the mugs. Jon watches him scoop a few spoonfuls of honey into one and just half a spoonful of granulated sugar into the other, with a splash of milk to each.

The microwave shrills, and Jon uses the cuffs of his sleeves to carefully remove the bowl. The mugs clink together as Martin settles at the table, turning to watch Jon tear open the blueberries.

“Wait,” Martin leans forward on his elbows, staring at Jon’s meal accusingly. “You add the blueberries after cooking the porridge?”

“Yes.” Jon dumps a few spoonfuls of frozen fruit into the bowl.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Why not?” Jon snaps defensively, blanching at the building crackle of dull brown static. “Ah, wait! Nevermind, you d-don’t...sorry.” He fidgets with the corner of the thawing bag. Rolls over the open edges and stuffs it into the fridge’s tiny freezer drawer. “Sorry,” he repeats.

Martin remains silent, and Jon gets the distinct impression that Martin is waiting for Jon to gather his scattered thoughts. “It cools the porridge off that way. Just enough.” Jon’s empty hands pick at the fraying edges of his jumper, smoothing away the unwoven strings. “I don’t enjoy extreme temperatures. For food.” And in general, Jon grimaces, unburned hand moving to press at the edges of his scar.

“So...lukewarm, then?” Martin asks. Curious, Jon notes. Not accusatory.

Jon shrugs, shoving a spoon into the bowl and dropping into the chair across from Martin. Martin pushes the untouched mug of tea towards Jon, and Jon tries for a weak smile. The downward quirk in Martin’s brow does not ease entirely, but he returns the smile. Good enough, Jon supposes.

 _Certainly more than I deserve_ , Jon thinks a bit more viciously.

The Archives creak and settle around them. The wall clock above the sink ticks slowly, accompanied by the clinking of Jon’s spoon as he stirs the porridge carefully. Jon prefers the mild sweetness of wild blueberries, the kind that turns porridge a satisfying shade of violet. Regular frozen blueberries taste fermented and acidic, a sharper, cloying sweetness to them.

Jon glances across at Martin’s hands, wrapped around a steaming mug. “You’re not eating anything.” It comes out flatter than he intends, but Jon cannot swallow the words back down. He shoves a bite of porridge into his mouth instead.

“Huh,” Martin blinks. “Weird. Are you chastising my meal habits? _You?_ ”

“N-no, I just...” His protest trails off. Martin is smiling more widely now, eyes soft and focused intently on Jon.

Silence hangs over the lapse in conversation, not quite oppressive. Jon tries to focus on scraping his spoon around the bowl and not on the way Martin keeps glancing furtively at him.

“Would you like to try a bite?” Jon asks, apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Um?” Martin’s fingers tighten on the handle of his mug. “Sure? Yeah, actually.”

Jon resolutely does not look up as Martin moves to sit in the chair directly next to Jon’s. He scoops up a bit of porridge and a full blueberry and holds the handle out to Martin. The weight of the spoon disappears after a moment before clinking back down into the bowl. Martin hums thoughtfully.

Jon snatches the spoon back up, finally glancing sidelong at Martin. His leg bumps Martin’s when he shifts restlessly, and Jon throws him an apologetic look.

Martin doesn’t seem to notice, making a show of tapping a finger against his own chin. “Now, I’m not a huge porridge connoisseur myself,” Martin says slowly, distinctly amused, “but don’t folks usually add sweetener?”

“Oh,” Jon pauses, spoon held aloft. “Yes. I...prefer brown sugar, actually.” He eyes the mostly empty bowl speculatively. “I forgot to buy some. I could add honey I suppose.” He shrugs and does not add honey.

Martin hums again, sipping at his tea.

“Instant porridge sachets have sugar added already. I usually just eat those, but…” Jon ought to stop. “After Orsinov, I cannot quite get past the, uh, the texture. Anymore.” Jon really ought to stop but he _can’t_ , suddenly. “Too...gelatinous.” Jon squints down at the stained interior of the bowl and sighs. “Sorry, t-that is…”

“When you get back,” Martin interjects firmly, “we will make a proper bowl of porridge. With brown sugar, on the stovetop.” Martin’s smile dips a bit, anxiety creeping into the edges. “I-if you want, I mean. No pressure!”

Jon slowly scrapes up the last bits of porridge. “Okay. Let’s do that. When we get back.”

He feels Martin’s steady gaze on him again as he drops the empty spoon into the bowl. Jon drains the last of his tea (honey-sweet, barely even tea really) and gathers up the dishes.

Jon fills the bowl with water and soap, leaving it to soak in the sink while he washes out the mug. The need to _Watch back_ itches at him, persistent and acutely present. He tries to ignore it, taking measured breaths and setting the mug aside to dry without looking at Martin.

“Martin- “

“Do you- “

They both pause. Jon’s phone cuts into the short silence with a vibrating text alert.

Jon ignores the phone and crosses to his bag, hauling it up and onto his chair. He pulls out the multicoloured pill container, rows neatly filled with tiny pills and tablets. He snaps open the Friday am compartment and tilts the medication into his hand.

“I always forget. The box helps, but obviously not if I don’t remember to check it in the first place.” Jon reaches for his cup, absently.

His fingertips meet a still-warm mug as Martin nudges his half-drunk cup of tea towards Jon. His smile gentles at Jon’s questioning glance. “Mine’s not as sweet as yours, but it’ll do the job, eh?”

“Sorry,” Jon takes a small sip and hands the tea back to Martin sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Martin shakes his head, still smiling that too-soft smile. “I promise it’s fine, Jon.”

Jon drops back into the seat, settling his bag onto his lap. Martin shifts a bit closer in his chair, one knee knocking there-and-gone against Jon’s own. With a sudden aching intensity, Jon both craves and fears the warm return of that fractional connection.

“You’ll be safe, y-yes? Careful?” He stammers, ridiculously.

“Safe as I can be,” Martin replies with a sigh. “You’ll be safe, too? Careful?” He echoes.

“I will certainly do my best,” Jon murmurs.

Martin stares a moment longer, then drops his eyes to the mostly empty mug clutched in his hands. He seems exhausted, tucking his chin downward and fidgeting with the paper tag of the tea sachet.

 _ **Martin has been so very tired for so long now.**_ The realisation - the _Knowledge_ \- pulses thickly through Jon’s mind, the puncturing pressure within his chest increasing tenfold.

“Can I…” Jon lays an impulsive hand flat on the table, palm up and open between them.

Martin’s entire face softens. The pulled-taut lines of his shoulders and chest smooth into gentle curves as he slumps in his seat, leaning just slightly towards Jon. He places his hand in Jon’s, curling their fingers together.

He...oh.

Oh.

Jon Knows the words he wants - _needs_ \- to say, but they stick in his throat, honey thick. He squeezes Martin’s hand.

A faint flush dots unevenly across Martin’s neck and cheeks and the tips of his ears. It is easy then, to scoot his chair across the centimetre gap and bump his arm against Martin’s. To drop his head onto Martin’s shoulder and press their sides gently together. 

To shift his fingers just slightly, and slip them into the spaces between Martin’s.

It is so easy, to be there with him.

They just...breathe, for a little while. Known and **Known** and still uncertain. Safe in that small unknowing.

Comfortable.

“Jon?”

“Yes.”

“Jon.”

“...yes?” Jon tilts his head back questioningly, catching Martin’s gaze.

Martin’s breath leaves him in a rush as he says, “I realise that this may be, in fact, the worst possible time to bring this up. So please feel free to tell me to shove right the fuck off. But...I’d really like to kiss you? If that’s something you, uh, you’d like. Too?”

“Yes,” Jon replies immediately. Easily.

“Oh,” Martin blinks. “Wait, yes shove off? Or yes- “

“You may kiss me, Martin. I-I’m fine with...that.”

“Oh. Oh, good.” Martin’s fingers tighten against Jon’s.

“More than fine,” Jon prompts, beginning to smile.

Martin makes a strange sound at that, eyes skittering across Jon’s face. He raises his free hand to touch Jon’s cheek lightly. “Good,” Martin repeats, pressing his lips to Jon’s.

The touch is feather-light, achingly sentimental. Jon reaches up to push his glasses onto his hair and angles his head more comfortably, leaning up and into another soft kiss. Martin presses back firmly, fingertips sliding across Jon’s jaw and settling warmly along his neck.

He pulls away, just enough to catch Jon’s eye and ask softly, “Still okay?”

“Yes, Martin.”

A warm grin spreads across Martin’s face. He leans forward to press a steady kiss to Jon’s temple, then slides his hand from Jon’s neck to wrap snugly across his back. Jon sinks into the light embrace, pressing his face to the collar of Martin’s shirt. Breathes in the scent of mint and honey and microwave porridge and _Martin_.

The door leading down into the Archives proper bangs open distantly, and discordant voices drift through the yawning corridor. Jon untangles from Martin slowly, pulling his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Martin smoothes a hand across the sleeve of Jon’s jumper and pushes to his feet. He tugs with the hand still clasped around Jon’s, and Jon shoulders his bag and follows him up.

He releases Martin’s hand at the counter to reach for his phone, still tucked behind the drying rack. Beside him, Martin picks up a soggy sponge and turns on the tap.

Footsteps clomp across the threshold to the break room and Melanie says drily, “Oh, great.” She drops heavily into a chair. It scratches across the tile as she leans back and props the heels of her combat boots on the tabletop.

“Good morning,” Jon says, fiddling with the buttons on the side of his mobile.

“Yep.” She elongates the syllable and pops the ‘p.’

Jon shifts his eyes back to the doorway, Knowing that two more sets of footsteps are quickly approaching. “I should probably…”

Melanie rocks the chair back and forth, precariously balanced on two legs.

Jon hesitates a moment too long, and Tim steps into the room, followed immediately by Basira. Their conversation halts, and Tim levels a steely glare at Jon. “Oh, great.”

“Good morning, everyone!” Jon winces at the forced cheeriness in Martin’s voice. “Bit early, isn’t it?” 

Jon tucks his elbows into his ribs tightly, hunching slightly inward. “I’ll go...prepare,” he says vaguely, to both the room at large and also no one in particular. Distantly, he hears Tim scoff.

Basira mentions that Daisy stopped off on a quick errand. Jon nods absently and moves to exit the crowded room.

“See you, then.” Martin calls softly. Tim scoffs with _feeling_.

Jon pauses at the door frame, one hand clenched tightly in the twisting fabric of his skirt. In his peripheral, he sees Melanie swipe at Basira’s pastry _**\--that she bought from Filtered, the tiny roastery that just opened on King’s Road, and she wants to ask Daisy to go with her because Daisy enjoys quirky places like that and she’s so worried--**_ and then catches Tim’s eye accidentally. Jon jerks his gaze away, landing again on Martin.

Martin, with his arms still elbow deep in the basin and fussing patiently over sudsy dishware.

Jon steps back to the sink and places a light hand on Martin’s shoulder before his mind can process the movement. Martin turns his head with a tentative smile. Jon presses a kiss to his cheek.

Jon barely keeps from startling as the legs of Melanie’s chair hit the floor with a sharp clatter. Her outstretched hand freezes, and Basira leans farther away from the pilfering fingers, eyebrows raised in Jon’s direction. Jon very carefully does not look at Tim.

Martin’s eyes are wide and bright. Happy. _Trusting_.

“See you soon,” Jon whispers, and flees the room.

The quiet of his private office is grounding, despite Knowing the chaos building unchecked in the break room. Jon nearly falls into his chair, bag dropping to the floor with a dull _thud_. He scrubs a hand across his face and into his hair, willing the warmth in his cheeks to recede. Leaning back, Jon idly watches silvery particles of dust swirl through the disturbed air in the dimly lit room.

He did not intend for the kiss to be so...performative. Martin certainly did not _seem_ upset by it, not at all. But Jon will check in with him, before they leave for the bed and breakfast. Just in case.

Sighing, Jon begins sorting through the statements on his desk. He flips through the ones pertaining to The Unknowing and to The Stranger, worrying at his bottom lip and trying to identify anything they may have missed. Anything useful, or dangerous, or-

His bag rumbles against the wood flooring. Jon shoves the transcription of statement number 7870211 (Martin had rushed to complete it, just in case) into a manilla folder and snaps it shut. Two unread text notifications from Georgie blink cheerily up from the lock screen when Jon digs it out of his bag.

**Received at 05:47**  
jonathan. (*￣m￣)

 **Received at 06:26**  
you better be dead

Jon huffs a laugh, tapping out a quick reply.

**Sent at 06:28**  
I had to live so I could take my meds.

He hesitates, then sends one more message.

**Sent at 06:29**  
Also Martin and I kissed?

Georgie’s icon photo (a close up of the Admiral’s tiny toe beans) fills the screen as Jon’s phone buzzes to life with an incoming call.

**Author's Note:**

>  ***narrator voice*** _They did not, in fact, make a proper bowl of porridge together afterwards._
> 
> (brought to you by: my unrepentant porridge habits. i will be accepting criticism in the form of delicious oat topping suggestions. also i'm still on s4 when will my suffering End)
> 
> In all seriousness, please let me know if you feel any tags/warnings should be added or adjusted. Thank you!


End file.
